


1 vs 3, or 1 vs 4, or 1 vs 1?

by Anonymous



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 03:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14844525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Three was enough, three was more than enough, he would have been fine.One Varg against three shadows and himself would have worked out in his favor.One Varg verses four shadows and himself just ensures his own death.





	1 vs 3, or 1 vs 4, or 1 vs 1?

Oh he was such an idiot.

He spat blood into the snow, iron heat filling his mouth, and the shuddering and shivers were getting harsher with every shallow breath. Slick pain was spreading with every second, his own gloved hand pressing hard against his sliced open side, just barely curled over and keeping the rest of the wound sealed. Blood dribbled out at a steady pace still, soaking crimson into his ruined suit and coloring the thick snow under his cold knees. It wasn't the only place he was injured, an aching static settling over his mind as his nerves felt as if they were set on fire, closing his eyes and swaying as he grew light headed from the bloodloss.

The snow was melting under him, colored red with his own blood as the hue spread about, and the blackness of the fuel was sweeping through as well, leftover oil slicks from his creations that had wobbled into gelatin and ash, to splash down into the ice after the first blows. Their swords had gone along with them, nothing left but smears of ice scattered colors, but the damage was done.

Something bubbled in his throat, made him wheeze and choke for air before bending forward and hacking the blood out of him, splattering the ground and trailing ooze from his lips as he struggled to breath. With one hand splayed on one excruciatingly painful injure, the other kept his weight, curling into the freezing snow as he hunched his shoulders and sucked in air painfully, slowly through his snarled teeth.

The injury on his back pricked, stung as he felt blood roll over his skin, soaking his suit even more as the flow traveled down his sides. 

For his part, Maxwell couldn't quite comprehend the pain and was just riding on leftover shaking adrenaline and pure willpower.

He'd die here for this, in the snow of some twisted forest, morning having just dawned.

Damn him and his own arrogance. Three was enough, three was more than enough, he would have been fine.

Three can take out a hunting Varg, three in ambush was good enough, it was four counting himself, it would have been fine.

That fourth one was completely unneeded, he hadn't needed it at all, and yet here he was, wasted fuel and his own death coming up soon. It was still early morning; no night was to take him this time around.

Maxwell snarled, baring blood stained teeth at the ground before something in his spine blazed white hot and all the energy in his limbs suddenly went out. He collapsed face first into snow, tinting it red with each gasp, frozen ice against his skin as he struggled to keep breathing.

If he had the energy, he'd have known earlier he still wasn't alone.

The snow hadn't even make a sound when the shadow had striked, only faint shudders of its conscious tinting the back of his mind, and after a moment Maxwell hissed in a cold breath into his struggling lungs and pushed himself up, elbows soaking before curling his hands into red snow. The sword in his back burned, pulsed with boiling pain that crawled through his spine, made his limbs shake.

The clone hadn't moved, stood next to him, but he felt it when the sword was pushed upon.

Damn thing was too intune with Them, he was sure.

Nearby the Vargs corpse was already attracting scarce flies, lolling mouth slack and beady eyes glazed, fixed to the sky. Its pack was either scattered about or had run for it, bodies hacked by the very sword embedded into his back, and Maxwell curled his hands and wished he still had his own.

Decapitating these things was the easiest way to be rid of them, and he's culled his own shadows before, a quick way to get the fuel back.

If he had officially won this battle, he'd have already offed the lot of them by now.

The shadow above him had the sword wrapped with it, was leaning over him, and Maxwell was just trying to keep breathing at this point. Parts of him meant to stay inside were currently not doing that, the wound in his side made by shadow having been stretched by his movements. Pushing himself up had been an incredibly bad idea, now that he glanced down.

Shouldn't look at oneself when death was at the door.

Evisceration wasn't normally his cup of tea, but he had tried to make sure everything stayed in earlier. Wasn't working so well, especially with how the sword point was helping to shove things out.

It was getting harder to breath, and his arms were shaking quite terribly. Gurgling for air, trying to swallow down the blood in his throat and failing miserably, he didn't even have the energy to try and cough it all out. The snow under him sopped up the blood dripping from his lips, and all he could do was stare at nothing and try to keep breathing.

There was a disconnect there, and perhaps it was the use of the shadow, helping mute it, but nonetheless, it was starting to really, really ache.

It was when the shadow pulled the sword out in one swift movement that it all came rushing in, and Maxwell found that he couldn't keep himself up like this any longer. His arms felt like jelly, or to be more precise it felt like he lacked arms altogether. 

Actually, he couldn't quite feel anything at this point. Not in the sense of moving, anyway, since he certainly could feel the sticky warmth he had collapsed upon, mixed with the ice cold.

There was also the sound of it, of falling upon one's own dangling organs, but better to quickly forget that. He needn't remember it next life.

The shadow made no sound, and he wasn't looking at it, could only see the Vargs hideous, splayed out corpse, and after a moment Maxwell shuddered in a breath and closed his eyes. There was a swelling of some sort there, something blindingly numb, and he was starting to get very light headed from it.

He couldn't even swallow what blood had been coming up in his throat, iron and hot on his tongue, ears ringing. He didn't know if he was hearing his own heartbeat at this point, but it was certainly getting rather quiet.

Feeling the shadow take position beside him, sword in hand, feeling it steady and silent and void of anything, was almost a breath of fresh air.

He couldn't quite take a breath himself, rasping an attempt before his lungs locked up, and the darkness behind his eyelids swirled and burned as much as the heat spreading in his spine.

If he just waited a moment, just a few moments more, involuntary tightening his hands into blood soaked snow and trying to fight the instinctive urge to gasp, to try and draw in breath, knowing he just couldn't, he just needed to wait a bit more before-

The shadow raised its sword, shimmering in the morning light, and he could feel the faint traces of it for a moment, the bits of it that were still of him and not Them.

It was gratifying, knowing he still had more power. The things out there wanted more out of him, more pain and gasping and the loss of energy as his body failed.

The clone was giving him an ending he would have saw fit himself, if he had been overseeing it. It only needed a slight push, the last bit of mental energy in him to coax it, creation assaulting creator, to help it along.

Always needed to be there to help these things along, and if he wanted it done right he'd need to do it himself, right?

Still, good to know it went for his plan over Theirs. He'd have to remember that.

The clone shivered, sword tightly entwined, and it missed the hint of a blood stained smirk from its creator before striking downward onto an exposed neck.

And then, with that, its entire being shivered and melted down, disintegrated into a fine dusting of shadow and glopping tar, fuel that seeped into red snow and lapped at torn fabric.

Later, the Vargs surviving pack would come creeping back, tails between their legs, anxious over the victor and what such a thing would do to them.

Fortunately for them, said victor had lost in the long run. His bones would be added to the den, along with the hounds fallen kin.

Casualties none withstanding, the wolves still won in the end.


End file.
